We are each other's magnitude and bond.

There can be no whiter whiteness than this one: An insurance man's shirt on its morning run.

Words can do wonderful things. They pound, purr. They can urge, they can wheedle, whip, whine. They can sing, sass, singe. They can churn, check, channelize. They can be a "Hup two three four." They can forge a fiery army of a hundred languid men.

And if sun comes / How shall we greet him? / Shall we not dread him, / Shall we not fear him / After so lengthy a / Session with shade?

Art hurts. Art urges voyages - and it is easier to stay at home.

When I start writing a poem, I don't think about models or about what anybody else in the world has done.

Writing is a delicious agony.